


On this Lakeshore

by deanlosechester



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 21:22:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanlosechester/pseuds/deanlosechester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every Sunday morning, at six o’clock sharp, Derek went fishing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On this Lakeshore

**Author's Note:**

> Something I wrote a long, long time ago, just when I was starting to get into the TW fandom and mostly because I like the idea of Tyler Hoechlin fishing.

Every Sunday morning, at six o’clock sharp, Derek went fishing.

If the pack knew, they never said anything; and no one ever asked, so Derek never told them. At this point, it was the only thing Derek had of his own. Even his house had been taken over by the pack—he couldn’t remember the last time Jackson or Lydia slept in their own beds, choosing to curl up on his couch instead.

He didn’t care if they knew, really, but every week when he went, he was as quiet as possible. He didn’t want to risk anyone asking to accompany him. This was for Derek, and Derek alone.

The hike up to the lake was a short one, for Derek’s standards. Ten minutes tops, if he let himself walk slowly and look around, which he did often. Sometimes he forgot how beautiful it was out there—empty, just trees and flowers and birds and the occasional squirrel or deer.

It was peaceful. Quiet. Something that Derek’s life was not.

The lake was more like a large pond attached to an even larger lake that went out from the trees—the dock extended out over a small delta of a pond, a small cut through the trees leading out to the main lake. It was private; no boats came through. It was perfect. It was just what Derek wanted.

He sat in the chair on the end of the dock, preparing his gear and baiting the hook. When he was younger—when this was a Father/son Thing and not just an Alone Thing—he was afraid to use live worms as bait. He didn’t want to kill them, even though he knew they were going to kill the fish once they were caught. There was something different, to an eight-year-old Derek, about stabbing a worm through with a hook.

“You need life to catch life,” his father had said, putting the worm on the hook as gently as he could. “Remember that.”

The only problem, Derek thought (years later), was that you had to live.

^

An hour and a half later, and Derek only had two fish sitting on the line next to him. It was a slow day—it had rained the night before, scaring the fish off. But that was alright; it was the principle of the thing. It was ritual, for Derek, to come out there every Sunday, rain or shine, and fish.

Whatever he caught was going to end up devoured by the pack, anyway. Derek was pretty sure he went grocery shopping three times a week, four if Scott hung around. They went through food like—well—like a pack of wolves.

Almost as if on cue, Derek’s stomach began to rumble, and he realized he’d forgotten to bring anything for himself to eat. Considering he’d be out there for another six and a half hours (give or take), that was going to be a problem. But it wasn’t the first time. He could deal with it.

In the next four hours, Derek had a stroke of luck and caught three catfish in addition to the two black crappie he’d caught. If things went his way, he’d have at least four more by the time the day was done and he could fry up some for the pack.

Because, somehow, he cared about them; this ragtag group of troubled teenagers had wormed their way into his heart and would not, for some reason, let go. But he’d never admit that, not to anyone.

They were all he had left to call family.

^

At 12:30, Stiles showed up.

He smelled him long before he could see him; the strange, cinnamon scent that was Stiles mixed with bread and cheese and… turkey.

He’d brought sandwiches.

“Hey,” Stiles said, sitting down next to him and holding out a sandwich. “You left without any food.”

Derek frowned. “How did you know?”

“I woke up when you left,” Stiles replied, shrugging. “Saw that you didn’t have anything to eat. When you didn’t come back, I made you a sandwich and went to find you.”

Derek forced himself to keep the corners of his mouth from curling up. Forced himself to ignore the strange contentment that Stiles’ gesture gave him. Stiles did nice things all the time; this was no different.

“Thank you,” Derek said after a while. He couldn’t think of anything else to add, so, he didn’t say anything at all. Just turned back to the water and watched the bob float along the top.

Stiles, for once, didn’t chatter; he just sat and leaned against the side of Derek’s chair, eating his sandwich, very quietly humming a song between bites.

It was the first time someone had been fishing with him in eight years. It was nice, actually.

After a while, Stiles started getting fidgety. By the time twenty minutes had passed, he was about to explode. Derek could smell the energy pouring off of him, knew he needed something to say or do, but Derek had nothing to offer him.

“What’s the other pole for?” Stiles asked, nodding towards the extra fishing pole Derek always brought with him.

“It was my dad’s,” Derek said quietly. “I bring it with me every time.”

“Oh,” was Stiles’ only reply.

Ten more minutes passed, and Derek caught another catfish. Stiles was completely mesmerized when Derek took the fish off the hook and placed it on top of the others.

“Can I try?” Stiles asked after a minute. Derek heard Stiles’ heart race a little; nervousness? Fear that Derek would say no and send him away? Or something else? Derek wasn’t sure. 

When it came to Stiles, he wasn’t sure of much of anything.

“Sure,” he said, reaching for a fresh worm from the bucket.

Stiles scrunched his nose. “Worms? Really? Do you have, you know… anything not alive?”

Derek smiled, handing the worm over. “Nope. Dad always said, ‘you need life to catch life.’ So, no fake bait.”

Stiles frowned, but put the worm on the hook with ease. Derek had to explain how to cast the line three times before he made an attempt, and even then the hook barely made it to the water before it got caught on the edge of the dock.

“Maybe I’m not cut out for this,” Stiles began, but Derek interrupted him.

“No, you’re fine; come on, I’ll show you.”

With that, Derek stood behind Stiles, taking his hands and putting them where they needed to be. Stiles’ heart raced, but Derek didn’t falter, just continued to show Stiles what to do, and in moments the line was cast and Derek was letting go.

Ten minutes later, Stiles caught his first fish.

An hour later, he’d caught two more.

By the time three o’clock rolled around, they had eight fish between the two of them; more than enough for the whole pack. They packed up their gear and began the walk back through the woods to the house.

They were halfway there when Stiles said, “Thank you for teaching me. I know it—I know it means a lot to you. Because of your dad, and stuff.”

“Do you want to come again next week?” was all Derek asked.

“Sure,” Stiles said. “Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

^

Every Sunday for the next eight years, at six o’clock sharp, Derek and Stiles went fishing.

^

Six years after that, one Sunday at six o’clock sharp, Derek Hale and five-year-old Laura Elizabeth Stilinski-Hale went fishing together for the first time.


End file.
